Chauvelin's Persuasion
by Dame Grise
Summary: Missing scene from Eldorado. It takes place the morning before Percy is captured. A bit squicky, but not too bad. Armand's POV. One shot. Revised.


Author's Note: When writing _El Dorado_ Orczy decided that Armand, still essentially the same foolish and imprudent character seen briefly causing angst for his sister in TSP, was younger than Marguerite rather than older. In TSP, he was described as 8 years older, as old as 32. In this sequel Orczy reversed the relationship, making Marguerite the elder, the "little mother" who'd raised Armand after they were orphaned. His exact age was not given, only that he was not yet "five and twenty" which was the age of majority in France.

Slightly revised. I still don't think there's anything more to add.

Disclaimers: Characters belong to Baroness Orczy. I just borrowed them.

Monday, 20 January 1794

The night had passed as badly as the two before. Dawn found Armand St. Just staring blearily at the ceiling of his room, as sore and gritty eyed as if he'd not slept at all. With his workman's clothes, worn two days already and soiled with coal dust, preparing for the day was a simple affair. He'd have to see Mlle. Lange again wearing the rude things, but there was nothing to be done for it. He knew her good nature would forgive him.

After washing, he was a little hungry, but he dare not leave his lodgings for fear he would miss Chauvelin arriving with the news that Jeanne Lange was released. Despite his knowledge that the Scarlet Pimpernel had spirited the young Dauphin out of the Temple, Armand had thought nothing of his leader and brother in law throughout the night. Now, waiting impatiently in the sunlight, he found himself speculating that the safety of the little uncrowned King of France would keep Percy from returning to Paris for some time.

This reassured Armand that he was doing the right thing in taking his beloved's release into his own hands. He couldn't fault Percy in placing his chosen cause above Jeanne Lange's life. Percy didn't know her, didn't love her, and couldn't possibly understand the torment Armand was experiencing at the thought of that delicate flower in prison for his sake.

So primed were his ears for the knock on the door, he was down the stairs with his hand on the latch before the concierge poked her head from her rooms. Armand waved her back inside and opened the door. A uniformed man stood there, and Armand assumed that it was Chauvelin's messenger.

"Citizen Armand St. Just?"

Armand nodded, a little wary of the formality of the address.

"Citizen Chauvelin requests that you accompany me."

Armand's hand went to his shirt where the bartered Certificate of Unconditional Safety lay folded against his breast. "But "

"You are not under arrest, citizen. You can refuse, but then citizen Chauvelin, who wishes urgently to speak with you, would be annoyed. He may forget the subject he wished to discuss."

Forget? Forget the release of Jeanne Lange? Armand paled. "No, no… of course, I'll come with you. I need to speak with citizen Chauvelin myself."

"Of course, citizen," the man said, his bland tone rivaling Chauvelin at his most ironic. Without even going back up to his rooms for a cloak or coat, Armand stepped into the street to follow the soldier.

Along the way, his fears bloomed into the waking nightmares he'd suffered from in previous days: the specter of Jeanne Lange in the tumbrel, her delicate face washed over with fear, her future dimmed by death. Lost as he was in his own thoughts, his conscious mind only aware enough to keep up with his escort, Armand didn't feel the either the biting cold or the wan sunlight.

Nevertheless, his fingers were quite numb when the shadow of the Temple prison, which he had seen so often these past days, obscured what light there was. He looked up at the gates and halted, unsure of what this meant. Again, he clutched the Certificate inside his shirt.

The soldier conferred briefly with the gate guard and they were admitted. Armand found himself within the walls of the Temple prison with his beloved Jeanne Lange and no idea whether either of them would see the sun again. The soldier indicated that Armand should walk before him.

"Citizen Chauvelin waits to see you in Citizen Heron's rooms."

Feeling a bit as if he were returning to a cage, Armand led the way to the familiar rooms. Why would Chauvelin want to see him here unless it was to remind him of the promise he made? Surely all that was done. Chauvelin and Heron both had promised him Jeanne Lange's freedom if only he waited at their disposal, at Chauvelin's disposal in particular.

At the door to the chambers, the soldier put a hand on Armand's shoulder. The man pulled the bell rope. The door opened almost at once, and at a shove against the small of his back, Armand fell off balance across the threshold. Chauvelin steadied him with a double grip on his forearms, and the door closed behind Armand. He shuddered and recoiled from Chauvelin's hold.

"Good morning, Citizen St. Just," Chauvelin said in an amiable tone.

An automatic polite reply was on Armand's lips when he noticed they were alone. "Where is Heron?"

"He will be out for some hours yet," came the gentle reply as if Chauvelin did not notice Armand's rudeness.

"Where is Mlle. Lange?"

"Where is the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

Armand's stomach tightened in fear, and a wave of nausea passed through him. Of course, Chauvelin would never be interested in him unless there was some way to strike through him at Percy or Marguerite. Why hadn't he thought that through the night before? The hope of seeing his beloved Jeanne had blinded him to all else. Now he understood his night of relative freedom. It had been a night to live with the hope, to dream on the chance of happiness, before Chauvelin snatched it away in some diabolical bargain. "I do not know."

"That's a pity. You know I have no power to free anyone, and the Committee isn't as interested in you as it is your leader."

"I am a counter revolutionary, and by your standards, a traitor to France. The Committee is interested in all traitors."

"But your only value, dear boy, is as a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Without that, you're just one of hundreds."

"I'll confess to that if necessary," Armand insisted.

"Are you that stupid, St. Just? It's not you I want at all."

"And I tell you I don't know where he is!"

"But I'm sure, given time, he could find you."

Something in Chauvelin's tone chilled Armand, and he took a step backwards, which put him against the door. He straightened his shoulders and gathered himself to his full height, which did not quite match Chauvelin's own modest stature. "You are assuming that he would look."

"Not look for you? Lady Blakeney would flail him alive if he abandoned you, her only brother."

Armand flinched. Chauvelin was likely right, so he said, "You're wrong, citizen. A married woman cleaves only to her husband. Looking after me is no longer Marguerite's concern."

But Chauvelin had seen the flinch. He stepped closer. "She almost handed him to me for your sake once. It may take time, but he'll come for you."

"No," Armand persisted. "That is not what we agreed. You say I'm of very little value to the Committee. What of Mlle. Lange? She has done nothing."

"Nothing except bring you to me."

"She's innocent!" Armand's color was up, the soft blue gray of his eyes as near to blazing as they could support. "You must release her."

"That's not in my power."

"We had a bargain."

"Are you at my disposal then?"

Chauvelin stood too close, but Armand had nowhere to retreat. "Entirely."

"I wonder." Chauvelin reached out and grasped Armand's arm, much as he had the day before and led him, unresisting, away from the door. The cool expression of Chauvelin's pale eyes had momentarily usurped Armand's will. But his incapacity was brief, and he jerked his arm free and backed away until he bumped against the chair by the fire that he had occupied the night before.

Chauvelin chuckled. "You're almost as pretty as she is."

This time when Chauvelin reached out it wasn't to grasp Armand's arm but his chin. The agent's fingers were surprisingly strong. Chauvelin forcibly turned Armand's head one way then the other, his cold eyes supposedly examining the structure of his face and bones. "People have often speculated about how unusually close the St. Just siblings were. And why Marguerite rebuffed your powerful cousin."

This last insult to his sister Armand could not bear. He freed himself from Chauvelin's curious fingers and swung a fist at Chauvelin, which connected with the agent's jaw. But Chauvelin caught Armand's wrist before he could recoil to strike again. Armand couldn't break the grip right away. Chauvelin neatly kneed him in the groin, and while Armand was dizzy with the pain, twisted the captured arm up behind Armand's back.

The younger man next came to his full senses on his knees, almost face first on the floor but for the arm that Chauvelin still held. His breath felt smothered in his compressed chest. Chauvelin gripped the hair at the nape of Armand's neck with his other hand, so Armand could scarcely move without pain.

"And now maybe you won't argue with me. It's as simple as this, St. Just. You're mine. And the only thing I'll take in exchange is Percy Blakeney. Do you understand?"

"Yes," as talking was moderately less painful than moving. "But I can't."

"Why not?" Chauvelin used his grip on Armand's hair to yank his head back so he could see his face.

"He's not… in Paris." Armand's color was up still, and faint veins marred his high forehead. More anger than fear darkened his eyes.

"But he'll return." He yanked Armand's arm further up his back to discourage struggling and was rewarded with a visible wince from the pain.

"No."

"What about Mlle. Lange?"

"You must free her."

"Is that all you can say?"

"You hold an angel captive to catch a hero. You're a monster!" Despite the bad angle, Armand spat into Chauvelin's face.

Chauvelin's response surprised him. The man bent and licked carefully from just below Armand's ear on the side nearest to him to the tip of the widow's peak of dark hair at the center of Armand's forehead. Revulsion jolted through Armand's gut, and he gagged. "Something wrong, St. Just?"

Armand, too revolted to speak, shook his head at the expense of a little hair. Then Chauvelin used Armand's arm to draw him upright until Armand leaned back against him. Chauvelin released the arm to snake an arm around Armand's waist, the other around his neck. The inflexible brutality of Chavelin's body against his unresisting back chilled Armand into the realization that Chauvelin lusted for the power he had over him, not for flesh. That thought was both sobering and reassuring.

"What do you want of me?"

"Wait for Blakeney to find you, then give him to me."

"And you'll free her?"

"Of course. You'll be free yourself."

"I don't care about myself."

"That's a pity." Chauvelin released him so suddenly, Armand nearly fell. Armand rubbed at the moisture still on his chin and cheek with his grubby shirt sleeve. "Go home, Citizen St. Just. Leave the rest to us. When Blakeney comes for you, you know what to do."

Weary and heart sick, Armand nodded. "I know what to do, Chauvelin." And he prayed with all his soul that it would be worth it.


End file.
